


Yule Still Be Here

by Neffectual



Series: My American Boys [2]
Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Feeling left out, Feelings, Insecurity, M/M, Magic, Mentions of Anxiety, Mentions of Racism, Multi, Ritual Sex, Rituals, So much insecurity, Yule, mentioned hard of hearing character, mentions of Daddy KInk, minor reference to substance abuse, outcasts, the characters used as a vessel for the writer's insecurities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: At Yule, they all come together, leaving their differences and insecurities on the ground beneath them, buried under the cold earth.
Series: My American Boys [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647922
Kudos: 1





	Yule Still Be Here

It’s not easy, being the spectre at the feast. Danhausen does his best to keep his tone light, to keep his presence amusing and bright, knowing too well what he could be seen to be. He hasn’t been invited to Yule before, but he’s heard the rumours, that eventually it breaks into an orgy of touch and sensation, that the solstice wants sexual energy to power the turning into spring again, leaving the cold of winter behind via the heat between their bodies. He doesn’t know what to bring, knowing a sacrifice is necessary but not knowing how to structure that. 

In his world, a sacrifice is made in blood and bone and hair and teeth, though he supposes other bodily fluids may well do the trick. For them, all light and tan skin and soft smiles, Yule is something to be celebrated as they chase back the darkness with the light of their souls. Danhausen isn’t even sure he has a soul – not anymore. But he wants to belong, so badly, wants to be a part of their world, where light glitters rather than wounding, where darkness is chased away with closeness rather than encouraged in. He wants to know what it is to be human, how humans celebrate Yule, and wants to be accepted by the humans he’s grown to respect over the time he’s spent with them. 

  
  


He always blames himself. Effy knows it’s his fault that he gets an invite to every sexcapade that’s going on; after all, he’s made himself Daddy, he’s made himself the epitome of every little perverse desire anyone’s ever had and been too ashamed to vocalise. He’s built his platform on being overtly sexual, because being overtly queer has always been seen as that anyway, why not take advantage of it? Why not take their expectations and rub them in their faces – if this is what they want, who is he to deny them this? 

It stings, though, to know that he’s welcomed simply because of his perceived lack of morals, his envisioned ease at slipping through the world of sex on command. He doesn’t ever say that he chose this because with sex appeal, he remains in control, remains awake and aware, and he’s done with being lost to sensations via other means. He can hope that Yule is going to be something other than simple sex; the way people talk about it, he wants it to be different, but he’s long learnt that expectations aren’t a good thing. He’ll go, but he’ll keep alert. He’s never anything else, anymore, and part of him wishes he could find a different way to let go.

  
  


His hands shake as he dresses. RJ curses quietly as he fumbles with his clothes, always less graceful putting them on than taking them off, always less confident dressed than almost naked. Anxiety is like a sleeping cat on his chest; the weight keeps him down, keeps him still, stops him moving, but there is no comforting purr, no softness to touch, nothing but the cold company of his own negative thoughts. He doesn’t tell anyone that stripping off and smirking is a defence mechanism, but they’d be stupid if they can’t work it out – he puts himself in a position of power, because he is too used to being in a place of weakness, and hates it. 

He makes himself clever when he talks, avoids modern references, keeping himself archaic in a way that seems an affectation, rather than a defence mechanism. Yule is supposed to be about the end of the year, celebrating a new beginning, but RJ thinks he’s never felt more stuck in his own little self-made hell, never felt less capable of reinvention. Shedding your skin is costly, and takes valuable time and energy, and he is sick of being what others want, but too afraid that no one will like who he is. Perhaps Yule will be different. And perhaps it will simply crush the last part of himself that he’s allowed to hope.

  
  


He’s silent on his own. Warhorse speaks only when spoken to in certain company, knows he’s too loud, too uncomfortable, addressing himself in the third person in an attempt to distance himself from the shouting and growling. Alone, he keeps his mouth closed, and lets the silence around him echo until it becomes a buzz, until the tinnitus rings in ears already feeling the hearing loss of too many late night gigs, too much loud music. And still, they wonder why he shouts; no one raises their voice to help him hear them better, no one ever turns to face him so he can read their lips, they just shake their heads or scold him for being too loud, as if he knows how loud he’s being. 

So on his own, he stays quiet, and he’s determined that this Yule, he’ll be quiet too. No one wants to be the loudest person at a pagan orgy, no one wants to be the only one asking questions. He’ll be quiet, he’ll keep his mouth closed unless he’s invited to do otherwise, and hope that he gets another invite. Summer is more his thing, and the summer solstice means he can whisper and expect to be heard. Yule, as he’s known it, has always been too loud to be at, but too important to leave. He’s done his best to cope, with tight smiles and nods, but there can be no connection without communication, and no one wants to slow down long enough to ensure he’s understanding what they’re saying. He wishes Yule could be quiet, just this once.

  
  


Callux doesn’t really understand. Why do the humans have traditions and then insist on inviting those who don’t share them into the room? What good can he possibly do in a celebration that’s meant to lead them out of the dark? Clearly they don’t know that he is the dark, that the dark is where he belongs, and that he sleeps cocooned in rich blackness spun out of nightmares and heartlessness. It’s not personal, it’s just what he is, and he’s never really wanted to be anything else. He is a creature others cannot understand, do not wish to understand, and so he does not mind too much when their traditions are also alien to him.

He wants to be invited, though, wants to be able to be there, with the humans, with those around him, and not stand out. Sometimes, he thinks of the day he’ll wake up with his wings, brightly coloured and something beautiful, and wonders if any of these people will like him more when he has become, rather than while he is becoming. Those who only care for what someone will become, rather than who they are, are merely predators, hunting down things that will do as they’re told, and he wants nothing to do with animals like that. He wonders who will be the first, at Yule, to ask what he is, rather than who, and closes his eye for a second, before taking a deep breath and leaving.

  
  


He’s a diversity pick. Suge assumes he’s supposed to be seen that way, that they’ve invited him because someone pointed out that things were getting a bit white, and he’s there as an addition, as some form of charity or pity or just to make themselves feel good. He’s made it a rule not to accept those sorts of invitations, to not acquiesce to being everyone’s method of guilt avoidance, to never let others feel good about including him. He will be included based on his own merit or not at all, but Yule is… Yule is different, for a number of reasons. Firstly, some of these people are the family he would spend it with anyway, and secondly, he is closer to those who lose themselves in the depth of the seasons than some might expect.

He’s determined to make Yule something that he can be at without having to apologise for his presence, for his laugh, for his blackness, but he doesn’t know if that’s possible. Doesn’t know if he can be seen both as black and a person, or whether “person” will always carry a whiteness-as-default label on the plans, whether those he knows will be able to see him as both person and politics, as both determined and delicate. On this cold night, however, he thinks it might be time to finally find out if he can be included, or if he should walk away.

They find each other, awkward in their approaches; Danhausen to Effy, because magic knows where magic lies; Effy to Suge, because the oppressed know whose hand to take; Suge to Warhorse, because rhythm and silence are always kin; Warhorse to RJ, because they both know what it is to be included but still apart; RJ to Callux, because the voices in their heads are similarly sharp; Callux to Danhausen, because darkness calls out to itself. The rest of the noise in the darkness drifts away, as they reach for each other, as clothes are scattered, as bodies soak up the heat of other bodies and they turn to face where the sun will rise at dawn.

They’re all chasing something, all striving, all reaching to become something better, stronger, more capable of dealing with their perceived weaknesses, more able to let go. They’re cleansing themselves of the year now done, readying themselves for the year approaching, preparing themselves for what challenges there will be. For there are always challenges, the wise know that, and there will always be things to overcome. But with their hands linked, skin pressed to skin rising with goosebumps in the cold forest air, as the tint of the sun rises over the horizon, it paints them all in pinks and crimsons and golds. Their breath clouds in the air, the sun signalling the end of their ritual, and they dress, quietly, avoiding each other’s eyes. But before they leave, they all clasp hands, and make a solemn promise – to next year. None of them can see the future, their skills, while eclectic, don’t run to that, but they all swear – next year, they’ll meet again, under the pines, on the frost-coated ground, and usher in another year. Then, they’re gone, and all that remains are soft depressions in the dirt and whispered words.

“Next year, we’ll still be here."

  
  



End file.
